


Session 3.2 - When the ringing stops.

by Munnin



Series: The Darthen Empire Campaign [3]
Category: Pathfinder (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Bluebooking, No context outside the campaign, Other, RPG notes, campaign diary, please ignore unless you're playing this game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 18:15:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18155333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Munnin/pseuds/Munnin
Summary: Cass is stuck down in the final moments of the assault on the Torn Swing but wakes to find victory bitter and strange.





	Session 3.2 - When the ringing stops.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, don't bother reading this unless you're playing Pathfinder with me. This is just a spot for me to host some bluebooking / out of session prose. It's not meant for anyone not playing and isn't written to make a lick of sense. I'm just appeasing the muses.
> 
> Please excuse the mangled google translate Japanese.

3.2 When the ringing stops.

She came to, aware of the burst of life-energy that filled her, the warm, sweet liquid flowing down her throat. Instinctively she swallowed, opening her eyes with a start, to find herself cradled in Piotr's arms, a look of concern clouding his young face.

For a moment the memories flooded over her – the running battle, the carnage. The cries of the wounded and dying. The sight of her fallen allies, even after she had come to their aid with healing. 

And most of all, the strike that laid her open. That felled her even at the last. 

She blinked and looked around, orientating herself once more to the field. The rock that had served as dais shadowed above them, the ground she lay on wet with blood. And all around them, the jagged cries of the injured and the laminations of the survivors. 

And eyes on them. So many eyes. Watching them, waiting for some cue to react. Whispering behind their hands. 

She became aware of her own body as the potion ran its course. The lingering warmth of a hand on her throat as he’d guided her to swallow the potion. 

She felt herself colour. Twice in just a few short minutes she’d done the same for others. The gunslinger and the half-orc both. But this was different now. It was for her, and in its own way an intimate touch she had thought little of when she had done it for others.

In those moments it had been necessity. Survival. The fear that at any moment the mounted knight would return and she would be force to face him.

When she had ridden across the mud, she had done so accepted her the possibility of her own death. All their allies but Piotr and the Blacksmith had fallen, and those who had felled Shinokishi had turned their gaze on the survivors. 

She rode to their aid with no expectation of survival. She was a trained fighter, but light and small. The damage she could inflict even with her wakizashi would do little to slow them down.

She rode forth, never expecting to find herself here, looking up into Piotr’s face. 

A face stained with blood and marked with injury. And worry. Worry directed at her. 

If it had been any other member of the party, she would have felt shame at having been rescued so. But it had come down to them – the two of them and the blacksmith. And she had not shamed herself in those final moments. She had fought, and fallen, with honour. 

And she had embraced death knowingly and without regret. 

Waking to find it pushed back by the hand of Piotr _Chēnburēkā_ , the breaker of chains, left no bitterness or stain.

"She's aliiiiiiiive!" Piotr proclaimed loudly, flourishing theatrically as a tired but exuberant cheer erupted from the group now gathering. 

His declaration made her smile, too slow to hide it behind a hand. Even in his weary state, he had not lost the mask of humour he wore. 

He gave her a lop-sided grin as he cocked his head. "Well there WAS a plan in there somewhere" He nodded back toward the crowd. "It still worked though, and the others should be fine too. Just need some time and rest I reckon"

She nodded and shifted to free him of her weight, scanning the crowd. The day was won but at great cost. The eyes that fell on her carried such sorrow, such loss. And yet they looked on her with an almost alien pride that bordered on avarice. It was a hunger she shied from, making her want to pull back into the shadows. 

Easier to focus on Piotr’s clownish grin and the strength he drew from it. 

“You fought with great spirits.” She managed a small smile. “And no small amount of fortune.” She clasped his wrist, using the leverage to pull herself up. There was still pain and the heat of blood under her armour but nothing dire. “This time.” The barb came with playful reproach. 

Rastus joined them, a second potion in his hand. The trader was less verbose this time, reeling from his own brush with death. Glad she didn’t need his help to swallow this one, she took the bottle with a nod, offering it to Piotr who was far bloodier than her. 

He shook his head with a grin and chuckle. "Ladies first" 

For the smallest moment she glimpsed a crack in his cheerful visage. The way his eyes flickered to Rastus to make sure there was a bottle for him. "You mean the landing on the rock right? I really have to work on that, my butt STILL hurts"

She waited, making sure the trader had another for Piotr before thanking Rastus and drinking deep. She closed her eyes, savouring the flow of life energy back into her form. 

With a slow sigh, she opened them again, watching as Piotr felt the same rush, watching his wounds close leaving only the blooded skin to mark the wake of it. “Making the swing at all.” She stowed the empty bottle with care, letting no resource be wasted. 

Silent for a moment, she pondered telling him of her own shameful slip. How she woke to find herself flat in the brush at the base of the tree. Part of her did not want to admit to him. After all, he had fallen and would not have seen it. But of all of them, she trusted him most not to mock her for her failing. And if he did, it would be in jest, not out of spite or any distrust of her skill. 

It was that that swayed her. “I have no grounds to criticise. My own decent was… lacking in grace.” She touched the now healed lump on the back of her head lightly. 

He chuckled and she could see the flash of pain behind his eyes as his chest moved around the still-sore injuries. "What a pair we are! It seems we both decided to give these guardsmen a sporting chance - and started hurting ourselves before they got near us!"

She held out a hand to steady him, pulling back a little as if catching herself in a flush of awareness of him, and of the warmth of contact. Something she allows herself so little of and yet he gives so freely. 

There was an echo of the shame she felt, being seen returning to camp with him. The fear of the _bushi_ ’s judgement. Of the coldness her training instilled in her. 

To follow the Shadow Path was to hone an edge to one's heart. To set aside emotions and make a blade of one’s self.

But what was the use of a blade that did not bend? Bent the wrong way, it would shatter. And to bend away from her allies would be to break. And break alone. 

She moved again, surer this time. A hand at his elbow to lend support. Her gloved hand was cool compared to the heat of his skin. “Go slowly.” She whispered, voice low and soft. 

She looked around, aware once more of the eyes on, of their place as the people's banners. She would need to find her own cover, her own mask of confidence. She had been the silent one, the angel of mercy during the battle. 

Until there has been nothing left but the blade and the blood. The edge of her heart. The readiness to fall. And now... Now there was the deep, unsteady breath on the other side. And her hand on Piotr's arm. 

The blacksmith stepped up, speaking in grandiose terms for one so splattered on blood. She took the distraction as the children came forward to Piotr and eased into the background, checking on her mount. As she glanced back, she saw Piotr accept the drawing, his smile bright as the sun and just as true. And for once she didn't hide her own smile in answer.

As the children scatter back to their parents, their spirits lifted by Piotr's exuberant acceptance of their picture; he spun around in his heel - the pain seemingly dimmed in his excitement.

"Look what they made, Cass!" He held the crudely drawn picture out, obviously treasuring it higher than the shiniest crown jewel.

She realised in that moment he was a born performer and artist, the adulation of the crowd - and the satisfaction of an entertained audience his greatest reward.

A concept so utterly alien to all she knew. 

And yet, wondrous to behold. 

She moved to examine the drawing, taking her time to read the inscription. (Her reading and writing of Common not being as strong as her spoken skill). "A fitting epitaph." She nodded with feigned seriousness. "And a fair likeness." But the joy it bought him was incandescent, eclipsing the pain. His justification and just reward for his cleverness. As the others came to join them, she melted back, still watching him smile.

***  
As the aftermath was tended to as best they could, Shinokishi drew level with her. He had moved around the party, one by one, reaching her at the last. 

Cass felt heat rise in her cheeks, reliving the shame of the moment she had slipped from the tree and fallen dazed. She moved to bow but he stopped her, his hand of his uninjured arm resting on her shoulder. 

He looked her in the eye, and in that brief moment she saw concern and relief in their sea-blue depths. But also, great pain. He too had suffered, and he too carried the weight of all they had seen and done. And all they could not prevent. 

She found to her shame she could not lower her gaze, nor break the moment. He nodded to her, as if acknowledging her response and stepped past her. There was still much to be done and many to help. The day was not over.

**Author's Note:**

> May continue into a second chapter, I'll let you know.


End file.
